Bite-Sized Laments: 100 Drabble Challenge
by Eryntar
Summary: NirCele's 100 Drabble challenge, centered around the Canon and Original characters featured in Lament of the Dunedain. Curious about Istuinn and Halbarad's past? Interested in learning more about the youngest squadron of Dunedain Rangers? Wondering how Istuinn and Imrahil are linked? These drabbles will feature all of this, and more. Enjoy :)
1. Stealing

**AN/ Hello all! I've decided to try out NirCele's drabble challenge as a way to get the creative juices flowing, and to get into the heads of Canon characters and OCs who make appearances in Lament of the Dunedain. It'll kind of be like hidden scenes :)**

 **Enjoy!**

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It was just that kind of summer day, the kind that dripped with lazy, golden honey, where my butts were mere watermarks upon the azure expanse of the afternoon sky. A hazy, lustful, muggy day.

The taste of fresh blueberries lolled upon my tongue. Halbarad's strong musk of sweat and leather filled my nostrils, sending my head spinning into a daze. We were lying, utterly spent, beneath the boughs of a majestic evergreen tree, and had been since he'd stolen me away from the crops of wheat that stretched out in the fields below us. With relish, I listened to my father's imperious shouts from down below, calling my name, swearing, and making half-true threats. I laughed. Halbarad chuckled, his lips stained purple from the blueberries we'd feasted on.

hose lips, he knew, were what roped me into abandoning my duties for the afternoon. Those lips had stolen me, heart, mind, and soul, and he used them to taunt me, to reel me in, to weaken my resolve, until I was his and his alone. We'd spend hours beneath this evergreen tree, sneaking away from training sessions, away from harvesting, away from celebrations and funerals and town meetings so that we could lie here together, so I could become utterly his.

I hadn't a care in the world for any of those things anymore.

And it was all because of those thieving lips.


	2. Any One of Us

Devand looked amongst his comrades, and saw only fear in their eyes.

It was unlike the fear he was used to seeing upon the faces of the many young lads (and lass) that made up Istuinn's trainees. He was familiar with the hesitation shown before cliff-diving into the waters of the cold pool nestled amongst the rocks just a short hike from the village, and he was certainly familiar with the fear of loss upon the return of mothers and fathers from scouting missions. This, however, was a fear unlike anything he'd ever seen or felt.

It was the cold, hard fear of death.

He couldn't blame them. They were all young, facing an uncertain future of war, all filled with a vague hope that they would survive and struggle through the battles of life together. No one could be left behind, lest they all die inside.

But Devand knew. He knew that no one was safe, not against the evil the was preparing to charge down upon his village in the form of scimitars and bloodthirsty cries. I _t could be me_ , he thought with a shudder, while buckling his sword belt, _it could be any one of us_.


	3. On the Brink

**AN/ I'm aware my drabbles are a little longer than 100 words... I'm working on it! This entry fits well with my image of a young Prince Imrahil: a dashing thrill-seeker tired of the the confines of court life.**

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"We've spotted a Dol Amroth ship just past starboard, Captain!"

Imrahil jolted into readiness from his position on the upper deck, where he had been reviewing stocks with his Chief Officer, the fourth son of the Lord Alasgil of Anfalas. Both men exchanged wary, panic-stricken glances before hurrying to the starboard side of their unmarked clipper, The Lady Míriel. Just like the grizzled deckhand had said, a magnificent frigate sporting the blue and white of the Dol Amroth fleet was steadily sailing their way, and Imrahil needed only a second to scrutinize it in order to identify the vessel. It was his father's flagship, and it was approaching fast.

Without a second thought, Imrahil roared for a windward change of course, so that the wind would hit the sails directly and send The Lady Míriel flying up the coast, as agile as the Pelargir whore she was named after.

Though he feared the implications a late delivery would cost, Imrahil dreaded his father's rage even more. To Adrahil's knowledge, the only heir of Dol Amroth was going for a three-month sailing expedition North to the ports of Mithlond, with a few friends from court. With a shudder, Imrahil imagined his father learning of the smuggling business he'd picked up on the way. Already, he'd carried multiple barrels of opium between Gondor's chief ports, earning a fortune, and perhaps picking up a few bad habits, in the process.

Imrahil knew that he was on the brink of capture, and the cold dread that doused his limbs at the thought was enough to make him reconsider his line of work.

Well, _almost_ enough. Nothing could beat the thrills of the Opium business. Besides, Imrahil had at least another decade before he could claim the title of Prince. Might as well live while one still can, right?


End file.
